Figment
by LucinaBlade
Summary: After returning from hell, Dean Winchester discovers that everyone linked to his former life has forgotten him. Forsaken by the people he loves, taken in by the police, and committed to a mental hospital, Dean finds will to live again from a mysterious angel called Castiel. There's only one problem: Dean believes Castiel is a figment of his imagination. Mild spoilers throughout.
1. Chapter 1

After clawing his way out of a hastily-dug grave, Dean Winchester figured he could use a break. After all, he'd just returned from hell itself, a feat not easily accomplished. He trekked over the roads to a small gas station, raiding it for food and water. He didn't know how long it would be before he could find his brother and Bobby.

After calling all of Sam's phones, he realized he wasn't going to be able to reach him as easily as he thought. The payphone he was using was old and sputtered and crackled when the voicemail message played. Dean's agitation played on his face, his eyebrows furrowing and his jaw set firmly.

If they weren't coming to him, he would go to them.

Sioux Falls was a couple days away, and after hotwiring a car (a handy skill, though Dean missed the sleek black Impala he called home more often than not) he was able to make his way to Bobby's home. He stomped up the creaky wooden stairs to the front door, staring fondly at the old lawn chairs on the porch. He vaguely recalled sunny afternoons spent drinking beers with Bobby and Sam on said porch, watching the sun set over the wide expanses of land surrounding Bobby's house.

He stepped up to the door, ignoring the niggling doubt that had taken root in his gut. _It's Bobby,_ he thought, _and I have nothing to worry about._

After three firm knocks, Bobby Singer opened the front door, looking as gruff as ever.

"Yes?"

Dean grinned widely, holding out his arms.

"Bobby, it's me. I'm… out of hell."

Bobby leaned against the door frame, a guarded expression on his face.

"Who the hell are you, boy? I don't have the slightest clue who you are."

Dean's smile faltered, but he plastered it back on.

"Bobby, what do you mean? It's me, Dean. You've known me for years, me and my brother. Stop playing around."

Bobby stepped back a short distance, moving to close the door.

"Boy, I don't know anyone named Dean or anyone with a brother named Dean. You've got the wrong person. I'm sorry."

Dean slammed his palm flat against the door, desperately trying to keep it open.

"If you're thinking I'm a demon or something, you're wrong, Bobby, I swear."

Bobby laughed harshly.

"Demons? What in the hell are you on? There's no such thing. I suggest you get yourself checked out, boy. Now get off my property before I call the cops."

With that, Bobby slammed the door in Dean's face, which had changed expression from glee to horror.

 _Bobby didn't remember him._

Dean grabbed the car keys miraculously still in his pocket, sliding into his car. His _real_ car.

The Impala still smelled of leather and salt, faded but still detectable. He inhaled deeply, his eyes pricking with tears that he quickly blinked away.

"Hey, Baby. I'm home," he murmured. "Let's go find Sammy."

Finding Sam proved to be harder than expected, but after spending years hunting his abilities to find people were honed to a sharp point. After a few more days, he stood outside a motel room marked by only the number 22. He raised his fist to knock, but a high pitched giggle made him falter.

Was Sam…?

The idea was too horrendous for Dean to entertain, and he knocked on the door. He heard a mattress creak and heavy footsteps pad toward him.

The door creaked open, showing a dark room behind it and Sam; drunk, shirtless, and tousled. His head drooped but his eyes glared from under his thick lashes, his mouth set in a stern frown.

"Sam…"

Sam stumbled forward, catching himself on the door frame.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?"

Dean suddenly realized that the scene was all too familiar, like he'd been there just days before.

"It's… me. Your brother? Dean?"

Sam laughed harshly.

"I may be drunk, but I'm not that drunk. I don't _have_ a brother."

Dean recoiled, stepping back in shock.

"But Sam, you don't remember? You sure it's not just the booze? I just crawled out of _hell._ If this is some sick joke with Bobby, I'm getting damn tired of it. Snap _out of it_!"

He backhanded Sam firmly across the face, watching his long hair whip across his cheeks. When he righted himself, his left cheek was an angry red and Sam's face held simmering rage.

"You should _not_ have done that."

Dean saw the fist coming but made no move to stop it. He crumpled to the ground as he heard the dial tone on Sam's phone.

At least he could still throw the hook.

Dean awoke handcuffed to an uncomfortable chair in a blank room, light shining in his tired eyes. An old man- a police officer- sat across from him, his expression unreadable.

"Welcome back, sonny."

Dean groaned, shifting in the chair. He hated cops.

"I hear from the young man who called you in that you spouted some wacky crap and then backhanded him. That sound right?"

He sat bolt upright, straining against the cuffs.

"He's my _brother_! And I…"

The cop leaned forward.

"And you..?"

He slumped again.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "My brother doesn't know me. Bobby doesn't know me. I must still be in hell."

A strange look flicked across the old officer's face, before his placid expression returned.

"Boy, what do you mean _still_ in hell?"

Dean laughed mirthlessly.

"What've I got to lose? I just dragged myself out of my own grave. I was dead. I was killed by hellhounds, and my soul was damned to hell. I was tortured by demons until I took up the instruments myself. I tortured innocent souls. And you know the worst part?"

The officer's face was pale, and he trembled in the seat.

"I liked it."

It happened fairly quickly after that. The officer escorted Dean to a cell, locking him in with a _what the fuck is wrong with you_ face.

He slept somewhat easily on the hard, uncomfortable mattress. Motels, he recalled, usually didn't have five-star accommodations either.

He briefly awoke to a rocking motion and a slightly better bed before succumbing to sleep again.

Dean finally awoke fully to sunlight streaming onto his face in a stark-white room, wearing white clothes that didn't properly fit and restrained to the mattress he'd been sleeping on.

His worst nightmare had come to life.

He was in an institution.


	2. Chapter 2

_Lovely readers… I've finally returned (hopefully for good). So to celebrate, I uploaded a oneshot fic I wrote when I was bored and finally a new chapter of Figment here. It's short, I know, and I'm sorry not to do anything longer right now, but I promise you I'll get back to full speed soon! For now, I gift you all this chapter and hopefully it still is as good as you all remember Figment to be. Remember- always keep fighting. We'll get there together._

 _And as always, I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters from the show. They belong to Erik Kripke. I'm just…borrowing them._

The next days passed in a blur of middle-aged doctors promising 'it'll get better' and nurses too oblivious to Dean's drugged-up flirtations.

It was nowhere near comparable to hell, but it still sucked.

The drugs kept coming, keeping Dean sedated and locked in his head. It wasn't much of a prison, considering he spent most of his time sleeping fitfully. Nightmares of hell interrupted his peaceful slumber, always ending in strange black feathers and the sound of wings beating desperately.

After several days (or was it weeks?), Dean awoke from his haze to his room. He stood up and walked around the room, his legs shaky from disuse. It was small, nearly constricting, and plain. No distinctive features.

The window showed nothing either, just the backside of a park with a few children playing.

Dean huffed and flopped quietly back on his bed.

The events leading to his hospitalization played through his head, Sam punching him, Bobby not knowing him…

It was almost too much for him to bear.

Without his family, he was nothing. A shell of a man who had lived once, died, and crawled away from hell with his own two hands.

The life he led was nothing compared to his nightmares- blood-soaked and dark, remnants of his time in hell. Sometimes he lay on the rack, not dead but wishing for it. Other times he held the instruments of torture, inflicting pain that he felt. He didn't deserve it.

Nobody deserved hell like that.

His nightmares were soaked in the blood of innocents, always ending with the sounds of furiously flapping wings. His days were beige and desolate, covered up with hospital food and starched blankets.

As weeks passed, Dean began to question his life.

Was he really not okay? Was this the place for him? The grips he held on reality were slipping, and he could swear he had started to see things.

Winged things.

Whenever he thought he spotted them, he would always hear the sounds of beating wings like in his dreams, whatever was there slipping away from him.

Until the one time it wasn't quick enough.

The wings were barely visible in the morning-darkened room, black as pitch and long. But they were wings and Dean would swear they were real.

"Wait."

The wings tensed, fluttering slightly at the sound of Dean's voice.

"I shouldn't. It isn't my place."

The voice that responded was low and grumbly, and Dean had never heard a sound so sweet.

"Please. I've known about you for a while now. Who are you? Why are you here?"

The figure laughed.

"You don't ask about the most obvious thing first? How odd, Dean Winchester. I am Castiel. I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

Dean sat up in bed, leaning unconsciously toward the figure-Castiel.

"Castiel? The hell kind of a name is that? And what the fuck do you mean by 'raised me from perdition'?"

Castiel's wings whipped around as he turned.

"Castiel is the name of an angel. _I_ am an angel, you insolent mortal. And by 'raised from perdition', I mean that _I_ am the one who pulled you from hell itself. Are those the answers you seek?"

Dean gulped softly.

An angel.

In the crazy house.

He laughed, soft at first but slowly gaining volume.

"Yep, I've lost it. I've lost my shit. An _angel_? Who do you think you are, huh? Angel my ass."

Castiel stepped forward, his wings flaring up and his eyes glowing a celestial blue.

"Do not make assumptions, Dean Winchester. I pulled you from hell; I can just as easily deliver you to Azazel again."

"Wait, no, please don't do that. I didn't mean to offend you. I… I just can't believe that an _angel_ is standing in my room in the crazy house. I don't even believe in any of that shit."

Castiel stepped closer yet.

"That is precisely your problem, Dean. You possess no faith. You believe not in God, not in yourself, not in an angel of the Lord standing before you. And yet you kill what others do not know of, the monsters lurking in the shadows beyond their perception? One would think you would be able to believe in an angel."

Dean smiled in the slowly lightening room.

"I need time. I'm in the loony bin after all. I could be going insane."

Castiel smiled then, his eyes softening.

"You aren't insane, Dean. I promise you that."

Castiel vanished then, leaving Dean to wonder if the encounter was his subconscious showing him a kindness- or if an angel had dared visit a former prisoner of hell itself.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey readers! I know it's been a while, and I'm sorry to leave you hanging for so long. Here's chapter 3, and rest assured that chapter 4 is already in the works. Until then, enjoy! And as always, I don't own Supernatural or any characters from the show._

From that day, Cas visited daily, making quiet conversation with Dean. It was refreshing to him, a welcome reprieve from the monotony of the hospital. The sound of wings became a welcome one, a clear bell on Sunday mornings.

Which was ironic- Cas was an angel after all.

Dean quickly learned that Cas wasn't the type of person to delve into mushy conversations of feelings. He was a jolt of a person, abrupt and final.

Dean appreciated the honesty that provided. Cas wasn't the type to sugarcoat anything.

Dean hated people who did that.

The visits passed in easy companionship, the two of them talking quietly or not talking at all. The atmosphere was different then, more friendly and less I'll-slit-your-throat-if-you-fucking-breathe.

The strangest thing, however, was the way Castiel's eyes never seemed to wander. They were always fixated on Dean or around Dean, and sometimes Dean could swear he saw flashes of electric blue in them before they returned to their ordinary storm-on-the-ocean color.

It was a little strange, but Dean could get used to strange. After all, his entire job and life were strange. Saving people, hunting things- dangerous, horrible things that went bump in the night and would have killed people if Dean hadn't gotten to them first.

Strange wasn't just in the job description, it _was_ the job description.

Thinking of hunting made Dean miss Sam and Bobby more, a painful reminder of their forgetfulness. Dean wouldn't like to admit it, but he needed people and stability in his life. He _missed_ people, as annoying as they could be.

Dean shook himself out of the daze that came from thinking about hunting and his family, refocusing his attention on the angel staring at him.

"Why do you do that?"

Castiel flicked his eyes down to Dean's face, his expression neutral and even.

"Do what?"

"Stare at me all the time. I mean, no offense, but it's a little weird."

Cas shook his head.

"I am sorry, Dean. I do not know much of the nuances of human interaction. I have not been in contact with your kind for long periods of time in my life."

"So, are angels just obsessed with staring at humans and thinking about the good ol' days? That sounds… pretty human."

Cas shook his head again, smiling.

"The life of an angel is devoted to divine purpose, serving God's will and carrying out his wishes."

Dean grinned.

"You've met God? The man upstairs? What's he like?"

"God is… absent from Heaven at the moment. We angels are maintaining our home until his return. We have faith in our father, and we know he will return."

Dean heard barely-concealed doubt beneath Castiel's voice, soft and sad.

"Cas… you're not okay with that, are you?"

Castiel huffed.

"I'm not happy with the way Heaven is changing in God's absence. We are supposed to be angels, denizens of peace and harmony. This is not the way angels are acting. Heaven has become divided, angels turning on angels, and war is coming. Everyone knows."

Dean laughed, stopping at Castiel's troubled expression.

"Oh, Cas. You're not the only one with family issues. I never told you how I got here."

"Dean, I do not need to know your struggles to cope with mine."

"Come on, Cas. It's called empathy. I want to help."

Cas hesitantly perched on the end of Dean's bed, angling toward him.

"I'm listening."

Dean took a deep breath before beginning.

"Well, clearly you know the whole 'pulled from Hell' story. You were apparently there. So I clawed my way out of the ground, got myself some provisions because apparently Hell makes a guy pretty thirsty. So I take care of myself a bit and go off to find my… family. I went to Bobby Singer's place first, since he's basically my dad anyway. He… didn't remember me. So I go find Sam, and he didn't either. We got in a fight and he called the cops on me, and I got sent here."

Dean paused, allowing his words to sink in.

"And then I met you."

Cas looked into Dean's eyes, which were shiny and bright.

"You're the only person to listen to me since I got here. The only person who remembers me. I'm starting to wonder if I really am insane. I mean, I am in a mental hospital after all. Maybe it's a good thing for me to rot in here."

Castiel's hand found its way to Dean's knee.

"You're not insane, Dean. I've seen you, and I have watched this earth many years. I know insanity, and you aren't insane."

Dean swallowed, his voice small.

"You're sure? You're sure I'm not insane?"

Cas nodded.

"Yes, Dean. I'm certain."

"Promise me, Cas."

"Promise what, Dean?"

"Promise you won't leave me. Promise you won't forget me. Promise you'll be the only one if it comes down to it."

"Dean… I shouldn't make those kinds of promises…"

A solitary tear slipped down Dean's cheek.

"Damn it, Cas, you're supposed to lie to me. You're supposed to make false promises that get my hopes into the sky and come crashing down when you leave me."

"Dean…"

Dean turned toward the wall.

"Fine, Cas. You… you should go."

The faint flutter of wings resonated in the room, and Dean was alone.

It wasn't like he was worth remembering anyway.


End file.
